


Giving In

by Anodos



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Music, Angst, Bickering, Bitterness, F/M, Modern Era, Rivalry, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Starkhaven!Solas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-03-30 10:21:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3933166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anodos/pseuds/Anodos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a struggling young musician resorts to busking as a means to prolong her dream of scoring a record contract for her band, The Inquisition, she is given a rude awakening from a mysterious street violinist who knows more about success than he lets on, and who may very well be the key to her own.</p><p>Chapter 4: Solas had expected his words to irritate her, or perhaps merely bemuse her; he didn’t see her smile coming from a mile away. It spread across her face slowly, laced with mischief and amusement and a little mystery of her own making. Under its power, the light shining out of her veridium eyes seemed like sunlight creeping in between the leaves of the Free Marches forests where she had spent her youth, even in spite of the clinical fluorescent lighting of the city’s underground.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Plan B

Melanie Lavellan had never felt more nervous. She had played shows to packed houses at both Haven and The Hanged Man, not to mention a myriad of thankless, easily distracted audiences at open mics throughout the city, but somehow, sitting hunched over her guitar in a starkly lit subway platform as a steady flow of commuters wandered in from the early morning chill gave her pause. Her eyes darted around at each of their faces as they passed by, still looking for some kind of (terrible? hopeful?) confirmation that she shouldn’t be here, that she should just pack up, go home, and sleep till midday like a proper struggling artist.

_Don’t you dare_ , she chided herself, determined. _The band needs this money._ You _need this money._

Not to mention, she had just spent a staggering amount of energy hauling both her guitar and a heavy backpack containing her amp, microphone, and stand down into the depths of the subway, all the while trying and failing miserably to be inconspicuous about it. Plus, Sera and Dorian had assured her that the busking rules for the city of Cumberland clearly stated no permit was required in the subway provided one did not exceed the city-ordained public noise level.

Something soft, then. Something she was comfortable with. She took a deep breath to calm herself, and then let her fingers find the familiar chords of classic rock legend Mythal’s last great song, ‘Give In’.

It was an old song, first released when she was a small child too young to appreciate its sad beauty. She had discovered it, quite appropriately, just after her first boyfriend had dumped her. It remained to this day one of the most important songs to her, and one that had hugely influenced her decision to pursue music as a career herself.

Mythal herself was a notorious figure for her Dalish origins, whirlwind rise to success, and the mysterious and tragic circumstances of her death, mere months after the single release of ‘Give In’. Her death had officially been ruled as a suicide by the police, but tabloids to this ran amok with tales of drug overdoses, and even murder, with desperate reporters digging through song lyrics to find clues to the identity of this dubious, likely fictitious killer.

As Melanie made her way through the haunted lyrics, sung from the perspective of a woman who struggled in vain to fight her devotion to a cold, unfeeling lover, she tried to ignore the lack of pedestrians stopping to listen to her. Instead, as commuters walked back and forth along the platform with nothing more than a passing glance in her direction, she focused on the pain and intensity of her favorite ballad.

Thankfully, she quickly became lost in her performance, and had no time to feel either self-consciousness or disappointment at the lack of attention and - more importantly - money she had garnered. As the last notes echoed through the underground tunnels around her, she sat back for a moment, eyes closed as she wallowed in the strangely cathartic emptiness the song always evoked in her. It was only when she heard distinctive clinks that she snapped back to attention, eyes zooming in on the newly deposited coins in her guitar case, and at the pair of boots that stood just behind it.

“This is your first time here, I take it.” The smooth baritone voice, complete with a rich Starkhaven brogue, spoke pleasantly enough, but there was something in its tone that Melanie didn’t like from the start.

Her eyes traced the scuffed shoes and faded jeans upwards, taking in along the way a slim-fitting green hoodie and grey scarf worn under a much looser knee-length black coat, until they rested on the face of her interloper. A pair of quizzical grey-blue eyes looked down at her, set against a sharply angled, thin elven face framed by short, mussed pewter hair. He carried a knapsack slung over one shoulder.

The sheer ambiguity of this stranger was staggering. He could have been thirty or fifty; an erudite professor or a crazed homeless man; an earthy-crunchy stoner or a plainclothes policeman.

She hesitated a moment as she considered her response.

“Why would you say that?” she returned after deciding, trying to sound in equal parts undaunted and innocent.

The smile he gave her was clearly meant to be sheepish, but his eyes flashed with an altogether different expression that Melanie couldn’t quite interpret.

“Intuition,” he offered with a slight, graceful wave of his hand.

“Oh,” Melanie said doubtfully, becoming less receptive to this man by the second. “Well, you’re wrong. It’s not my first time.”

The lie was more to end the conversation than anything else; it’s not like she had anything to prove to him. In truth, she had never before attempted anything like this. She didn’t even venture that often into the subway, preferring instead the buses or her bike, when she could afford the gas, to get around the city.

“I see.” His tone and his posture clearly indicated he didn’t believe her for a second.

What was worse, he made no move to leave, even when Melanie pointedly looked away from him and back at her guitar.

“You know, that song you just sang, ‘Give in’?” he asked at last, calling her attention back to him. He looked almost… hesitant, yet supremely confident as he continued, “You made a slight error with the lyrics in the bridge leading to the final chorus. It’s actually meant to be ‘want to give up _all_ my love to you’, not ‘want to give up _on_ my love to you’.”

Melanie could not help the scoff that escaped her, nor did she want to any longer.

“I think you must be mistaken,” she said, making no effort to hide the derision behind her polite words. She _knew_ he was mistaken; she had worn out more than one vinyl copy of the song, and it still ranked in the top ten of her most played list on her phone’s music app.

“I can understand why you would think so, _da’len_ ,” he replied, perverting the meaningful Dalish term of endearment by spitting it out the way baristas and bank tellers condescendingly called her ‘love’ or ‘hun’. “It is an easily made mistake, and you would not be the first to make it. The two words are, after all, phonetically similar.”

This time his smile was meant to be kind and his tone forgiving, but it was painfully obvious from the way his eyes had frozen over that he was neither genuine in his expression nor sincere in his words. She gaped openly at him, taken aback by the man’s ignorance and how he blithely pretended to be unaware of it. Why, in a song about a woman lamenting her inability to stop loving a man who mistreated her, would she suddenly turn around and admit she _wants_ to give him her love?

“It would not be a _simple_ mistake, if it were one at all; it would change the meaning of the whole song,” she argued even as she realized the pointlessness of the endeavor.

“Well, that much we can agree on,” he returned, his smile turning ironic as he tilted his head at her. Before she could object to him, the faux-lightness in his voice became impossibly more prominent as he asked, “May I give you some advice?”

He lightly nudged her guitar case with his boot as he posed the question, the resulting hollow sound indicating a decided lack of substantial coin. She blinked at him, opened her mouth to speak and immediately closed it.

_Who does he think - ?_

“I wouldn’t want to trouble you,” she said acerbically, holding back the urge to shed the veneer of civility between them. “You’ve already been so helpful.”

“Oh, it’s no bother. I have plenty of time,” he trilled with another casual wave of his hand.

He remained irritatingly silent and still, however, waiting for some kind of acquiescence from her. Frustrated and irritated, she gestured flippantly for him to proceed, making a point to set her guitar down so she could cross her arms.

“Look around you, _da’len_ ,” he beseeched, gesturing at the increasingly numerous throng of commuters gathering on the platform. “Most of the people here at this hour have just dragged themselves out of bed to board a crowded train heading towards a job they loathe. They don’t want to hear dour ballads about love lost; they want to hear something _fun_.”

And then, just like that, he nodded a polite farewell and strolled off down the platform, giving himself the last word on the matter. Melanie stared at his back, agape with ire, contemplating shouting after him with each step that took him further away.

Before she could make a decision, he came to an abrupt stop no more than forty feet away from her. She watched with mounting confusion as he placed his canvas knapsack on the floor against the wall, knelt down and pulled out…

_Oh, Fenedhis._

The bow came out first, held in his right hand, followed by a badly scuffed but clearly well-made violin with a cherry finish. He spent a few moments tightening the strings and tuning the instrument.

Then, when he was ready to begin, the bastard had the gall to turn to her pointedly, not at all surprised that she was still watching him, and bow his head towards her with a smug grin. He didn’t even bother to take in her reaction before he placed his violin under his chin and began to play.

She recognized the jaunty, meandering tune instantly, but it took her a moment to fully process what she was hearing. Based on their earlier conversation, she had expected him to play cashed-in string covers of top forty hits, or maybe even some Orlesian classical befitting the typical Starkhaven snobbishness, but this Free Marches city elf, who threw out ‘ _da’len’s_ like they were nothing more than saccharine pet names, was playing traditional Dalish folk music.

And he was _good_.

She was far from the only person who thought so. In short order, the rumpled violinist drew a sizable crowd of commuters, all turned to listen appreciatively while waiting for their train to come. Coins and bills were dropped into his open pack at a steady rate, and he dedicatedly rewarded each and every patron with a friendly nod and a smile - or even, if a gap in his playing permitted, a genially drawled ‘thank you’.

_Gods_ , she realized in horror. _He’s a regular here_.

Despite still being infuriated with this arrogant stranger, she found herself now battling a rising mortification at having stolen his usual spot and lied to his face about doing so. The two conflicting emotions, on top of having to watch him make a profit off of her treasured cultural heritage, for which he clearly held no reverence, quickly became too much for her to handle. It was all she could do to begin packing up her instruments slowly and quietly enough to escape anyone’s notice.

_As if anyone was paying attention to me before,_ she thought bitterly.

She let out one final, defiant huff when she realized her competition had left her exactly enough change to recoup the fare she had paid to enter the platform. Begrudgingly pocketing the money, she hefted her heavy guitar and heavier backpack once more and slunk off to the far exit of the subway. Well... as much as one could possibly slink while carrying a burden that weighed half as much as themselves.

Time for Plan B after all, then. After such a spectacular failure, she would certainly have no trouble crawling back into her bed and not moving an inch until she was done feeling thoroughly and utterly humiliated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few quick notes:  
> -Chapter length will likely get longer after this, which I consider as a sort of prologue. I'm probably going to aim for 3-4k per chapter.
> 
> -I changed a few physical details about Solas, giving him hair and a Starkhaven origin, in the interest of giving him an appearance that blends into a crowd and giving this non-immortal incarnation a more concrete background. Why Starkhaven? Because accent. I've always thought a Scottish accent really enhances sarcasm and bitterness.
> 
> -I'm sticking to a Thedas setting, but will probably resort to borrowing some real world artists/songs/genres/etc as I go. So far, I've decided to equate Dalish folk music with Celtic music.
> 
> -I do plan on writing some original song lyrics as I get further on ('Give In' will be a crucial to the story in particular), but will likely on occasion portray characters singing covers of actual songs. I will always be clear when I am using song lyrics that I did not write, and I will do so sparingly as the song lyrics/music aspect is not something I want to overcrowd the narrative more than necessary.


	2. Back In Town

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI: I made revisions to chapter 1 including some brief but important backstory set up about Mythal that I meant to include in this chapter before I realized this chapter was long enough. It's very close to the beginning, before Solas speaks to Melanie.
> 
> For the most part, I will continue to make my real world analogies intuitive, but in case I fail at any point I'll start putting brief notes at the end.

It was Melanie’s greatest regret when she walked into her apartment that she had nothing to throw on the ground in frustration. She was carrying two of her most valuable and precious possessions, and there was nothing within arm’s reach on either side of her. For a brief instant, she considered slamming the door, but the thought of damaging it and incurring yet another expense from their insidiously ignoble landlord Samson held her back. With no other outlet left, she closed the door quietly, gingerly laid down her instrument and equipment, and let out a feral roar that, with any luck, would be heard from here to the Cumberland Circle.

“Morning went well, I take it?” Dorian’s deep and cultured voice inquired from the couch. His head and torso appeared moments later as he sat up from where he had been lying down and rested his heavily tattooed forearms on the backrest of the couch to look at her.

“Yeah, it went swimmingly. Already made enough to cover the rent. Why else do you think I’m back so soon?” she dripped sarcastically as she stalked over to the kitchen area on the right to survey her food and drink prospects.

It was a shame, really; their loft apartment would have been perfect for practices and rehearsals if it weren’t for the disgruntled neighbors and terribly insulated walls that earned them noise complaints the minute they started tuning up. The building they lived in was one of those old warehouses that landlords snatched up and renovated into luxury apartments that they then overcharged for mercilessly, except in this case Samson had missed the parts about renovating and luxury and skipped straight to overcharging. Reaching the fridge, Melanie opened it and sighed as she greeted her old friend, Disappointment.

 _Toast with peanut butter it is, then,_ she thought as she closed the fridge and went for the cupboards. _...Again._

“Alright, tell me exactly what happened. Spare no details,” Dorian said, still groggy and very likely hungover as he trudged over to a kitchen stool and promptly collapsed onto it, leaning heavily on the counter between them.

While she waited for her toast to be ready, Melanie regaled Dorian with a full and accurate transcript of her encounter with the mystery violinist, complete with dramatic reenactments and a decidedly unflattering Starkhaven accent. Dorian squinted at her all the while as he listened, which told Melanie he was either paying her rapt attention or just struggling to process anything that was going on around him.

“I don’t know how Sera does it,” she said when her story was done, just before digging into the bountiful feast of cooked bread and peanut extract she had prepared.

“I struggle to comprehend how Sera does anything, if it’s any consolation,” Dorian muttered, sitting up and stretching. “Cheer up, Mel. Tomorrow’s a new day.”

“Is it?” Melanie asked doubtfully.

Swallowing the last bite of toast, she walked a few paces away from her roommate, avoiding his gaze. From the corner of her eyes, she saw him freeze mid-stretch, and she could tell that somewhere in his brain a warning bell was going off.

“I only have about twenty-seven years experience with time, myself, but I believe that _is_ how it works,” he answered cautiously. “What exactly are you implying?”

He knew exactly what she was implying; he wanted to make her say it. Though she kept herself faced away from his direct scrutiny, the words stuck in Melanie’s throat, threatening to make her sick as she said them.

“Look at us, Dorian,” she began weakly. “What are we doing? This month, it’s a few hundred bucks to make the rent. What about next month? Or the one after that? Are we going to keep banging our heads against a wall to get a contract until we’re homeless?”

“A show fell through. One show,” Dorian reminded her. “So we’ll get more shows.”

“Just like that?” she countered.

“We’ve never had trouble before, Mel. We’ve been getting by for five years now.”

“We _were_ getting by,” she corrected. She took a breath and pushed her bangs away from her face, bracing herself to admit what she had feared for some time. “Maybe it was all just luck, after all.”

She heard a piercing screech of metal stool legs scraping against tile, but by the time she whipped around Dorian was already standing in front of her, eyes ablaze as he looked down at her. If he had been tired and bleary before, he was sure as Sylaise awake now.

“Don’t you _dare_ tell me it was luck,” Dorian growled furiously. “Do you know what was luck? Me being born with a silver spoon in my mouth to two of the most influential politicians in the Imperium. Do you remember who it was that convinced me to give up that stable financial life and a promising career as a concert cellist so that I could do what I wanted to do? _Be_ who I wanted to be? And do you know what I - what _we_ \- have been doing since then? We have worked day and night, sacrificing countless hours of sleep for practice, and cajoled, nagged, and begged to score shows. Luck had _nothing_ to do with it.” He took a breath and a step back, calming down. “Just remember that at the end of the day, you have a family and a community that loves you, that would take you back. I don’t have that option.”

Melanie stared at him a moment, speechless at his rare display of raw fury. When he made to walk away from her, however, she was spurred to action. She grabbed him by the arm before he could take a step. With the difference in their stature and strength, she could never have pulled him into her embrace if she tried, but she didn’t need to; the second she looked in his eyes, she saw the ire melt away, and they fell into each other’s arms with the force of a tidal wave.

“I did ask a lot of you, didn’t I?” Melanie admitted half into her best friend’s chest. “I’m sorry, Dorian.”

“Oh, don’t be,” he replied with his regular candor. “It was bullshit, anyway. Being the disowned gay son of a conservative magister has done me no favors. I mean, honestly, do I seem like the kind of person who was built to cope with the tortured artist lifestyle? On our first month out of the Circle, I spent half my monthly allowance in the first week - and that was on booze alone!”

“At least you had the drinking part down,” Melanie said, chuckling.

Dorian gave her a final squeeze before pulling back to look at her, hands still holding onto her shoulders.

“Come on, let’s go out and get you something to eat that isn’t bread, for Andraste’s sake.”

“We can’t _afford_ to,” she chided with an imploring look.

“According to you, the only thing we _can_ afford to do is lose a few pounds,” Dorian replied with a smirk. “But I know someone who can. Someone who potentially owes as after misleading you into stealing a disgruntled street performer’s spot.”

They shared a look for a few moments in silence, until an understanding grin grew on Melanie’s face and they said in unison:

“Varric.”

 

* * *

 

The Hanged Man was a longtime fixture in Cumberland’s historic arts district. Located a very convenient distance from the Cumberland Circle of Musicians, the combination bar and venue had never failed to attract a steady crowd of aspiring artists and frustrated students. Performing on The Hanged Man’s stage, either on one of the frequent open mics or, if you were talented enough, an actual gig, was a rite of passage for Circle students, and the old building had witnessed the births of some of Thedas’s most popular artists’ careers over the years.

As much character as The Hanged Man’s ancient oak wood floors and shining sylvanwood proscenium arch possessed, however, they still could not compete with that of its dwarven owner, Varric Tethras. The current scion of the famously industrious Tethras dynasty, the only family tradition Varric kept was making money. A true man of the people, he preferred to run his business from the front, tending bar as often as any of his regular staff. He had more stories and connections than anyone could keep track of, made new friends and adopted new charges at the speed of light, and he _still_ found the time to be a successful author. No one, including the man himself, could explain how he did it.

“Did one of your cooks quit again? These potatoes are disastrous.”

And yet, for all Varric’s magnificent qualities, puffed up Tevinter brats _still_ found it in them to complain about his cooking.

“Shut up and eat your vegetables, Sparkler,” Varric told the dapper bassist, who was currently poking at his plate with a mixture of disdain and concern.

“It’s a starch…” Varric heard Dorian mutter under his breath before he stopped paying attention altogether, turning to Melanie and far more important concerns.

“Definitely a Starkhaven accent, this violinist?” he asked her, crossing his arms in consideration. When she nodded, he continued, “What did he look like?”

Not the best question he could have asked, and predictably, Melanie’s answer was not too helpful. Elven. Tall, but not too tall. Looked skinny but he wore a big coat, so maybe not that skinny. Nondescript clothing. Eyes that were either blue or grey, hair that was somewhere between black and grey, or possibly even dark brown. Varric paused his musing at this last clue; if this violinist was who he thought, the last time he had seen him…

“What I really can’t get over,” Melanie huffed, “Is how he kept calling me ‘ _da’len_ ’ like I was some kind of child. I can’t _stand_ that.”

Well, that settled it. It was definitely him. A small grunt of amusement mixed with wonder escaped Varric at the realization.

“Do you know him, Varric?” Melanie, sharp-eyed as ever, asked immediately.

“Well…” Varric scratched the back of his head, considering what level of honesty was appropriate. “There used to be a street violinist at that subway station like you’re describing, but I haven’t seen him there in _years_. I assumed he’d up and gone; that’s why I recommended that place to you. Guess he’s back. Huh.” Varric smiled distantly, his mind growing antsy as he thought about this unexpected development.

“You know more than that, don’t you?” Detective Dorian chimed in. “Cough it up, Varric.”

“Listen, Sparkler, even if I _knew_ who this guy is, not all stories are mine to tell,” Varric said firmly, fixing him with a meaningful look.

Andraste bless him, the man knew when not to push his luck. Varric breathed an inward sigh of relief. Melanie, however, was harder to resist, looking up at him as she did with those big elf eyes. She had a gaze innocent enough to make him forget this was the same woman who once tried to convince him the water bottle she was drinking was actually full of water and _not_ vodka by chugging the whole thing before impressively finishing her bussing shift without passing out.

“You can’t let this one incident with this guy discourage you, Melody,” he told her gently, sidestepping the issue she clearly wanted him to address. “It was just a misunderstanding. Street performance is one of the best things you can do to grow as an artist. You get immediate feedback from your audience, good and bad, and if you’re any good you can make some decent cash.”

An idea struck him, then; a quite brilliant one, if he did say so himself.

“This guy probably keeps to some kind of a schedule. Why don’t you go back there next week, around the same time, and apologize? He’s been around Cumberland for years, he might be able to give you better help than I can on where to start.”

“You want me to go back there, and… what, say I was wrong?” she asked, incredulous. At his nod, she pressed, “But… _he_ was wrong! About the song, anyway.”

“You sure about that?” Varric asked, keeping his tone carefully devoid of suggestion.

“Am I sure that I know the lyrics to my favorite song? I’m _pretty_ sure.”

Varric allowed himself a small, doubtful shrug, couching it with a jesting remark.

“I’ve been telling you kids to listen to your elders for years, but no one ever seems to listen. It’s very trying for us old folks.”

“Oh, please, Varric, no one’s old until they’re at _least_ forty,” Melanie shot back with a devilish grin, knowing full well Varric was pushing forty-five.

“Very funny; you’ll have a great fallback career in stand up comedy. Listen, you two, I have some accounts I need to take care of before I open up, so this is where I leave you. Just lock the place up when you leave.”

As he stepped down from the bar and headed upstairs to his office, he heard Dorian call out after him, without a trace of his usual dryness:

“Don’t worry, we’ll clean up.”

“You better, after that potatoes crack!” he shot back before disappearing behind the second story landing.

 

* * *

 

Once Varric was in the privacy of his office, he made a few calls.

It took him a little under an hour, but at the end of it he found himself in possession of a post-it note bearing a cell phone number he had never seen before. He stuck it on the desk in front of him and promptly punched it into his phone, followed by two quick texts:

  ** _2:34pm_ **

_Heard you were back in town._

_Still using burners, I see._

He waited patiently for a reply, which came as slowly and reluctantly as he had predicted.

  ** _514-212-7456  4:09pm_ **

_Still a meddlesome dwarf, I see. How did you get this number?_

**_4:10pm_ **

_Took a few calls, but Choir Boy coughed it up._

**__514-212_ -7456  4:14pm_ **

_My generosity is repaid with treachery. Not very Andrastian of him._

**_4:15pm_ **

_You wound me, Chuckles. Were you planning on telling me?_

**__514-212_ -7456  4:16pm_ **

_Possibly.  
_

_Well? Did you have something to say, or just wanted to waste my texts?_

**_4:17pm_ **

_Like you can’t afford it._

_You seem to have made a new fan._

**__514-212_ -7456  4:18pm_ **

_I go through a lot of trouble to ensure I don’t have any fans._

_What are you playing at, exactly?_

**_4:19pm_ **

_I’m just saying, if a red-haired Dalish girl with those face tattoos shows up at your usual haunt again next week, play nice._

_She’s a good kid, and a good musician. Could use some guidance._

Varric waited for Chuckles to reply, but his old friend went radio silent for several minutes. He pressed on, determined.

  ** _4:28pm_ **

_Listen, I’m not trying to imply I know any better than you who has potential. She’s just a friend._

_The tattoos she has are the ones that look like a tree, if that helps._

He waited a few more minutes, but no reply came. Varric sighed, put his phone aside, and dove into some of his less intriguing work.

He would wait as long as it took.

 

* * *

 

He was prowling tourist traps in downtown Cumberland when he got Varric’s last texts. He stopped under the shade of a tree to read the message and openly scoffed at it in disgust before shoving the antiquated flip phone back into his pocket and going about his day.

He was going to have some carefully chosen and meticulously spiteful words with Vael later.

Just as he thought about Starkhaven’s favorite son, he looked at the newsstand several feet away and noticed the pretty boy’s pristine white-leather-attired image on the front cover of MOT’s latest issue. He sauntered over to peer at the headline:

**PROFILES: SEBASTIAN VAEL**

**The Starkhaven songsmith who hit it big with ‘Handwritten’ talks past successes and future projects.**

Well, he thought, maybe the words didn’t have to be _quite_ so spiteful. Or at least, they could wait until the new album was released and their latest business arrangement complete.

Avoiding the already waning autumn sun like a vampire, he wandered directionless down the winding cobblestone lanes of Cumberland’s old marketplace, a pedestrians-only affair where cars had no business being. He’d been roaming up and down the city for days, guided by nothing but his ears and his curiosity as he tried to get a feel for how the widely regarded musical capital of Thedas had changed since his last spell here.

The telltale sounds of clanking metal and thumping plastic caught his attention as he arrived at one of the marketplace’s open plazas.

 _Ah, bucket drumming,_ he thought with a sigh. The lowest common denominator of street performance, oversaturated by amateurs who thought it was as simple as buying a pair of drumsticks and whacking away ineffectually at whatever was on hand.

And yet, he realized as he listened further, this was no novice. The rhythm was not without occasional lapses into sloppiness, but there was real technique here, an attempt at complexity, at something more than the same tired and predictable structures. He approached the small crowd gathered around the drummer, sidestepping enthusiastic dancing children and even more enthusiastic young lovers to observe the rest of the performance.

She was a scrawny waif of a thing, he thought with some amusement as she finished a set; he wondered how she managed to cart around the myriad of percussive odds and ends laid out around her. Applause and cheers sounded from the audience she had attracted, and she met the praise with a toothy grin and a mercenary gaze that was sharper than the tips of her elven ears.

“Remember, folks, if you like the show, let the bucket know!” she hollered in a crass east Denerim accent, helpfully tapping an upended bucket already filled with a substantial payload.

Before she could get too distracted or launch into another segment, he removed a bill from his wallet and held it out to her, pointedly making sure she took it directly from him.

“Impressive, _da’len,_ but your drumsticks are worn; they hinder your performance. Try Imshael’s shop on Markus Avenue; I believe it’s still there,” he advised as she took the money from his hand.

She peered up at him perplexedly from under choppy blond hair that was somehow more disastrous than his own.

“Uhh, cheers, mate,” she said, before adding under her breath, “I think.”

She must not have noticed the dollar amount on the bill until he turned to walk away, however, because the last thing he heard from her before the din of the crowd swallowed her voice was:

“ _Phwoar_! _Definitely_ cheers. Thanks mate!”

Hours later, as he rested in the corner of a half-empty bar, his phone rumbled in his pocket yet again. He scowled and ran a hand through his hair, focusing on how much he despised his unruly locks instead of heeding the urge to check his messages. Only six months since he’d decided to grow it out, and he still wasn’t using to having hair. He desperately wished he could shave it off again, but he didn’t want to risk anyone recognizing him from last time.

At least he no longer needed to wear a hat in the burning sun or the chill of winter. If there was one thing he hated more than hair, it was hats. As he continued to savor his scotch, he began mentally cataloguing all the awful hats he had been forced to wear over the years, lining them up in order of how much he wanted to burn them.

His phone buzzed again. With a final surrendering growl, he retrieved the phone from his pocket and snapped it open to glare at his unread messages.

**_514-362-9342  4:28pm_ **

_Listen, I’m not trying to imply I know any better than you who has potential. She’s just a friend._

_The tattoos she has are the ones that look like a tree, if that helps.  
_  
**_514-362-9342  5:30pm_**

_Chuckles?_

**_514-362-9342  6:45pm_**

_Right. Good talk._

**_514-362-9342  9:15pm_**

_You gonna need a practice space while you’re in Cumberland?_

Oh, that bastard. He tore his eyes away from the phone, tapping his foot agitatedly. He didn’t need this; didn’t need old friends hounding his every step, trying to drag him back into their lives or tie him down with some project they felt he needed to distract him from his loneliness. He didn’t need to be distracted from loneliness; he _liked_ loneliness. Loneliness was comfortable, familiar. It drowned out the older, deeper pains, the ones that would _really_ kill him if he ever stopped long enough to think about them.

He did, however, need a space to practice, and any spare instrument he could get his hands on. It wasn’t as if he could lug a piano across the continent with him.

He looked back at his phone and started typing.

**_9:20pm_ **

_Are you offering?_

**___514-362__ -9342  9:20pm_ **

_There it is._

**___514-362__ -9342  9:23pm_ **

_Tell you what, you help this girl, I’ll leave a key under the mat for you._

_The Hanged Man is all yours, so long as it’s after hours and you shoot me a note to make sure it’s free._

_You’re not my only charity case._

He raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching up in a brief smirk.

**_9:25pm_ **

_Clearly not._

_What if the da’len never shows?_

**_514-362-9342  9:26pm_ **

_Oh, she will. I’ll make sure of that._

He grimaced at that, downing the rest of his scotch to balance the distaste he felt at the prospect of seeing that girl again, and having to be _nice_ to her at that. He wasn’t sure what he thought was worse: her choice of music or her choice of _vallaslin_.

 _Fenedhis lasa,_ he thought miserably, _why did it have to be Mythal?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music analogies/notes:  
> -In this universe I'm using Circles as essentially musical conservatories, and prestigious ones at that. Much like Cumberland also held the College of Magi, in this universe Cumberland is a very prominent musical city in Thedas.


	3. The Hunt Begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was actually not intending this to be a standalone chapter, but I realized last night I was at 6.5k words and counting. As a result, Solas is absent this chapter as I introduce the rest of the major players and plot lines, but the good news is the next chapter is almost entirely written and is almost entirely from Solas's point of view.
> 
> Just wanted to say as well, thank you for all the positive feedback so far! I started this idea on a whim not quite sure where it would go, but it's really come together in my head since then. I'm now having way too much fun building out this modern Thedas and imagining how things carry over from canon; feel free to let me know if it ever becomes too much - I do want to focus primarily on the Solas/Lavellan romance and the mystery of his past.

Wednesday mornings in the middle of the month were a tumultuous time at the offices of Music of Thedas; it was about this time every month that writers woke up with the horrible realization that their articles were either as yet unwritten, would be impossible to finish, or were just plain shit and had to be scratched.

For Leliana, it was just one more month of disappointment as she stared at her all-but-blank laptop screen, her collection of clippings, leads, and rumors spread out before her on her desk. With how pathetically unreliable and disparate they all were, not even a tabloid would publish the type of garbage she was trying to sell. Thank the Maker she had taken to pitching a back-up article to her editor every month, and writing that one first in case her desired story didn’t pan out.

This month, at least, she had fared better than usual. The city of Kirkwall had recently dropped all criminal charges against every member of the guerilla punk band City in Chains, which meant they could finally come out of hiding and release their music to the public in a more conventionally legal sense. She had managed, through her connection with Varric and a _lot_ of sweet talk, to score an interview with Chains’s infamous frontman Hawke.

 _Next month_ , she thought doggedly. Or the one after that. Somewhere along the line, she would find the lead that made her elusive story, and the man or woman behind it, more than a laughable urban legend.

“‘Has the Dread Wolf Caught Your Scent?’ Creators’ sakes, Leliana, please tell me you don’t still think he’s real,” Melanie’s voice said behind her, reading the headline on her laptop.

Leliana whirled around in her office chair, staring at her young friend with more confusion than surprise.

“How did you get in here?”

Melanie perched on the end of Leliana’s desk and placed down a stack of manila envelopes in front of her.

“No one looks twice at a meek little elven girl scurrying around with a bundle of mail. Learned that from Sera.”

They shared a brief conspiratorial grin.

“I didn’t say I thought it was a he, necessarily,” she replied evenly, glancing back at her laptop. “I do think whoever it is, though, they’re elven.”

“What, just because of all the wolf imagery?” Mel asked doubtfully, looking down at all the images of lyrics and sheet music on the table, scrawled on everything from legal pad, to napkins, to receipts. The only common identifying feature was the minimalist but emblematic drawing of a wolf’s head that was used like a signature at the end of every piece. “Leliana, if I’ve learned anything from the hundreds of Dalish rock bands that have popped up in the last few decades, it’s that you don’t need to be Dalish, or even elven, to rip off whatever bits of our culture you like and ignore the rest. And I’m not so sure that’s what’s going on here.”

“When I first came to you, you were _positive_ that these illustrations were meant to evoke Fen’Harel. You even showed me similar iconography from your clan,” Leliana reminded her.

“I was at the time, but… what you seem to think this person is doing, roaming around Thedas, anonymously leaving talented singers with monumental songs meant to propel them into fame, and seeking no reward from it… it’s not really Fen’Harel’s style,” Melanie explained, crossing her arms. “He’s really more… well, he’s kind of an asshole.”

“I never said this mystery composer was charitable,” Leliana returned slyly. “That’s just the piece of the puzzle I’m missing. These songs, they’re not donations - they’re business propositions, bargains. I’m convinced of that.”

Melanie sat up slightly at that, interest piqued.

“Okay… but what’s the price? And how do you know who you’re making a deal with?” she asked with a furrowed brow.

“You don’t,” Leliana replied, giving Melanie a pointed look. “And now you know why I haven’t been able to let go of this story yet.”

She abruptly snapped her laptop shut and gathered all of her clippings back into their folder, continuing, “So far, the pieces I’ve found, the people I’ve talked to… they’re the ones that didn’t take the offer. If I could find someone that did, prove that someone currently topping the charts is doing so with a song that they didn’t write…” she trailed off and waved her hand dismissively, too skeptical and tired to believe that this was a realistic goal.

“Well, I wish you luck. I know this is really important to you.” Melanie spoke with solemnity, but gave only the bare minimum of respectful silence before perking up with, “So, can we talk about why I’m here yet?”

Leliana checked the time.

“You have exactly two minutes. I have a meeting.”

“Good, this won’t take long,” Melanie said enthusiastically, undaunted by the time limit. “I was just wondering, you know that Mythal song, ‘Give in’?”

“The infamous number one single that you made me listen to ten times on repeat on our road trip to Wycome? No, never heard it,” Leliana interrupted with a wry smile and a long-suffering look.

“Yeah, that’s the one,” Melanie continued obliviously, clearly too caught up in the weight of her request to pay Leliana’s sarcasm any mind. “I was wondering, do you have any idea if there was, like…” her face contorted slightly, as if she was uncomfortable, “I don’t know, a demo or something, or a difference between releases, or a printing error, or _something_ where maybe the lyrics were changed early on?”

If Leliana had the time to be curious, she would have questioned why her friend, who was one of the most obsessed Mythal fans she had ever known, seemed so unsure of herself as she posed this question. As it was, she had an editor waiting, and needed at least thirty seconds to prepare herself for another lecture from her about not delivering the promised article.

“It’s… an odd question you ask,” Leliana admitted. “But I can look into it when I have time later today. Some of the older staff here might know something.”

Relief washed over Melanie’s face as she hopped down from Leliana’s desk.

“You’re the best, Leliana. And remember, if you need help with any more Dalish stuff, I’m your elf.”

With that, she winked at Leliana as she grabbed the envelopes she walked in with, and scampered off down the hallway, feigning hurriedness with the authenticity of a seasoned actress.

 

* * *

 

“Um…” the young qunari bouncer, who stood head and shoulders over her adversary, croaked with nervousness as she spoke. “I’ll need to see some ID, ma’am.”

“Look. At. Me.” Each word was a menacing bark, and not one that intimated that any hypothetical bites that might follow would be any less deadly.

Cassandra Pentaghast was a sight to behold any day, composed as she was in angles so sharp they looked likely to draw blood and ever dressed to kill in finely tailored Nevarran suits. She stood with a fighter’s posture that made you desperately want to ignore her perfectly sculpted ebony hair and flawless porcelain skin for fear that she’d dock you if she caught you staring too long. All of that, combined with the fury that was currently burning in her eyes, was enough to make one turn to stone at the briefest of glimpses.

The hapless bouncer swallowed thickly.

“Unfortunately, e-even if you don’t look underage… it’s the law,” she persisted, managing to convey only the slightest sense of authority in her tone.

“No; you didn’t let me finish,” Cassandra accused, watching with satisfaction as looks of confusion and dread passed over the bouncer’s face. “Look at me and _tell_ me that your employer, who we both know does not give two shits about the law when it does not suit him, did not hire you for the express purpose of keeping me out.”

Cassandra had no interest in hearing the bouncer’s answer. Instead, she watched the qunari’s face intently with the intensity of a snake watching its prey as her hazel eyes flicked for an instant to her right, then blinked as if trying to cover the action. Cassandra followed the errant gaze to the backside of The Hanging Man’s front door, which was fully plastered with posters, memos, and memorabilia. In an instant she found what had drawn the qunari’s attention.

Her face, printed several times in mugshot fashion, all under the ominous headline “Beware the Dragon”. The photos were mostly culled from public profiles available online. On the last one, someone had drawn a dastardly curly moustache on her face and added the caption “what she might look like if she tries to sneak in wearing a disguise”.

With a furious growl, Cassandra tore the poster off the door in one clean swipe and swept past the useless bouncer. When she entered the main bar and noticed with a quick sideways glance the absence of its proprietor, she marched straight up the stairs, threw open his office door and slammed it loudly behind her.

At the noise, a startled Varric looked up from his laptop. As his mind registered who was standing in front of him, his features shifted uncertainly a they struggled to convey the complexity of his reaction. Ultimately, he settled with a friendly smile that was belied by a nervous twitch in his eyebrows.

“Seeker, to what do I - OW!”

Varric’s saccharine greeting stopped short as a cd case, thrown by Cassandra with stunning accuracy, hit him right between the eyes.

“You conniving little _shit_!” she roared, closing the distance between them until she stood before his desk where it was all the easier to tower over him.

“Andraste’s _ass_ , Seeker, I thought you’d finally been weaned off of throwing sharp objects!” he yelled back, features twisted in anger as he rubbed the injury on his forehead.

Not one to be baited when she was on a mission, Cassandra leaned forward slightly, gripping Varric’s desk with two hands as if she would flip it over at the slightest provocation.

“You knew where Hawke was all along,” she snarled with less volume but equal intensity.

Varric’s eyes fell to the cd, which had landed on the desk. He flipped it over to read the title - “Blow the Chantry” by City in Chains, and understanding grew on his face. He took a deep breath and stood up in an effort to reduce the drastic advantage she had over him in height.

“You’re damn right I did,” he told her, staring up at her defiantly.

It was nearly too much for Cassandra to bear. Mildly concerned that she would actually start beating him if he kept glaring at her like that, she turned away from him and took to pacing the office in a futile effort to vent some of her frustration.

“All these years. All that time. Even when…” she stopped as she came to a realization, turning back to Varric with genuine astonishment. “Varric, after the Kirkwall Riots, the city police wanted Hawke and all the others in jail. They made up charges. They had _warrants_.”

“I remember, Seeker. I was, as you so gloriously put it, one of the ‘others’,” Varric shot back testily.

“I offered you all _protection_ ,” Cassandra persisted doggedly. “You, Hawke, and everyone else would have had the best lawyers Divine Records could afford.”

“So long as the band signed with the company, sure.”

Cassandra scoffed.

“So you kept Hawke away from me, risked the safety of all your friends, for what? Artistic integrity?” She paused a beat, thinking, before growing darker as she continued, “Or were you just trying to protect your own interests, so you could produce the album yourself? Has it been profitable for you, dwarf?” she sneered.

Varric rolled his eyes at the accusation.

“Look around, Seeker,” he said, gesturing at the finely appointed albeit messy office. “Do you think I really needed the money? I was protecting _my friend_. Hawke wasn’t just making an album; it was a _statement_. Something to inspire change in the fucked up pile of corruption that Kirkwall was seven years ago. How do you think that statement would have sounded after your producers got their grubby hands on it?”

“So that’s the reason you lied to me? You thought - what? I couldn’t be _trusted_? I couldn’t _handle_ it? I wasn’t chasing after Hawke for the money; I was after the songs. They were _important_.” Cassandra was yelling again, carried away by the idea that Varric had believed she was either too greedy or too incompetent at her job to have seen Hawke’s album through properly.

“Oh, bullshit!” Varric spat abruptly, genuinely throwing Cassandra off balance. “You’re an agent for one of the most lucrative record companies in Thedas, and you want me to believe you care about the _music_?”

Cassandra shook her head at him in disbelief; could he really think so little of her? She let out one long, resigned sigh, losing the energy to be angry.

“I _do_ ,” she said simply, with a conviction that brooked no argument.

Varric was silent for a beat, squinting at her like she was some kind of magic eye image before he shook his head as if he had given up trying to discern it.

“Sweet Maker, you’re hopeless.” His tone was an irksome mixture of sympathy and mirth, but it was a welcome enough change of pace.

“I know,” she admitted bitterly.  
  
Suddenly feeling exhausted, she stepped back over to Varric’s desk and collapsed into the chair across from his. Varric sat down across from her, regarding her with a caution one would typically display towards an unpredictable wild animal. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes at him.

“Divine Records used to put out music that meant something,” she continued when it was clear he had nothing to say. “But it hasn’t been that way for years; somewhere along the line we got lost. Listeners these days are growing disillusioned with our brand; _I’m_ disillusioned with it. A band like Hawke’s, one that spoke out against unjust cruelty and _stood_ for something, could have put us back on track.”

“Will all due respect, Seeker, the music of the counterculture never really gets along well with the mainstream,” Varric offered dryly. He hesitated, seemingly in careful consideration, before asking, “So… what did you think? Of the album?”

“It’s good,” she said honestly. Then, after a beat, she added, “A little too much swearing for my liking.”

Varric chuckled despite his best efforts to stifle his reaction. Cassandra glowered at him, standing up to to re-center herself.

“As strange as this has may seem to you, Varric, I did not come here simply to argue with you about the past. Hawke was a lost cause; one I had given up long ago. I came to ask you about someone else.”

“Oh?” Varric’s response was instantly guarded. “What makes you think I know this someone else?”

“You know a lot of people,” Cassandra replied evenly.

She let a meaningful moment of silence pass before she reached into the inside pocket of her blazer, pulled out the ragged piece of sheet music stowed within, and slammed it on Varric’s desk. He took one look at it, then looked up at her in shock.

“You’re kidding.”

“I do not kid, Varric,” she replied acidly. “I’m looking for the one they call the Dread Wolf.”

“Cassandra, there _is_ no Dread Wolf,” he asserted, using her real name to drive the point home. “It’s just some disgruntled composer trying to put one over on the world. Or, more likely, several dozen disgruntled composers.”

“No one with a brain would deny that at least half the songs out there are fakes,” she retorted. “But the real ones are unmistakable - genius always stands out. I am looking for that genius.”

“You want to sign the Dread Wolf,” Varric stated, deadpan.

“Yes.”

He scoffed and waved a hand at her dismissively.

“Good luck.”

“Varric,” she said, calling his full attention back to her. “Do you know who the Dread Wolf is?”

“No, I don’t.” He answered immediately and confidently, looking her in the eyes. “Because the Dread Wolf doesn’t exist.”

She honestly didn’t know, after having been fooled by him for so long, if he was telling her the truth - but she was smarter this time. She leaned in one more time, levelling him with a glare and a smile laced with poison.

“Liar.”

With that final accusation, she turned and left his office before he could respond, leaving the sheet music on his desk for him to contemplate.  
She would be back soon, after he had time to sweat.

And she would get the truth from him.

 

* * *

 

Saturday morning’s band practice had begun unremarkably enough. As per usual, Dorian and Melanie arrived early together to unlock The Hanged Man’s basement, where Cole was inexplicably already seated and tuning up. From there, the three of them set up all the necessary equipment and enjoyed a good ten to fifteen minutes of idle chatter as they waited for the unfailingly late arrival of their drummer. This morning, however, as fifteen minutes stretched first into thirty, then forty-five with no sign of the blond elf, the atmosphere grew tense.

When Melanie stormed upstairs for the third time to try Sera on her cell phone, Dorian leaned in to Cole.

“I bet she’s run off to follow the Qun just so she can finally bag herself a qunari,” he muttered under his breath. “The woman has a horn fetish, I swear.”

The young, pale lead guitarist looked up from his instrument and blinked as he took several seconds to parse everything Dorian had said.

“I don’t have any money,” he told Dorian simply.

“Well, neither do I, at that,” Dorian replied, tilting his head at Cole. “It was just - oh, nevermind.”

Conversation with Cole was a tricky thing; it was almost as if he didn’t speak the same language as everyone else. Whole exchanges would pass between Dorian and Cole where neither was really quite sure for the entire time what the other was saying. It was fascinating to Dorian on the best of days, and exhausting on the worst. Thankfully, Melanie and Cole seemed to have some sort of intuitive understanding of each other that stretched beyond his sparse and oddly chosen words.

“Well, I finally got ahold of Sera.” Melanie’s terse voice preceded her as she emerged from the stairwell. “She’s been tied up all morning working on a vintage Cadash Phoenix. ‘Couldn’t say no to getting under that baby’s hood’, in her words. She says she’ll be over in fifteen and to start without her.”

“Right, well, I’m glad she has her priorities sorted,” Dorian snapped. Melanie shot him a warning look. “What? Don’t tell me you’re not angry.”

“I’m pissed she didn’t bother to tell us, yeah,” Melanie responded. “But, as much as I would like to be, I can’t be angry at her for choosing to make money doing something she loves and is good at instead of practicing with us.”

She sighed heavily and sank into a nearby chair, running a hand through the longer side of her asymmetrical auburn hair.

“We’re going to lose her to her job someday,” she said to Dorian after a pause, a look of impending doom in her eyes.

“Do… we need a drummer?” Cole asked hesitantly, looking between the two. His question, asked innocently enough, seemed to be an attempt to console them, but Melanie couldn’t help but crack a smile at the hint of seriousness she detected. Despite his best efforts, Cole really couldn’t seem to get himself to like Sera, and Maker knows she made that task hard enough on her own.

“Yes, Cole, we need a drummer.” She answered him without a hint of condescension. It was a quality Dorian always marvelled at, but it came easily to her. Everything came easily to her where Cole was concerned; he just had that way about him.

“Oh,” was Cole’s only response as he frowned and looked down at his guitar, still clearly worried.

“Don’t worry about it,” she reassured him. “We’ll find a new one if it comes to that.” She didn’t sound as confident as she would have liked.

“Yes, it’s _you_ we’d all be fucked without,” Dorian joked, looking at Cole.

Melanie levelled another silencing glare in his direction, but he simply shrugged in feigned innocence. It was true, after all - neither of them had ever met a more naturally talented guitarist in their lives, even in the six years they’d spent at the Circle. Poor Cole, however, looked distraught.

“Oh, but you don’t have to worry about that,” he said hurriedly. “I would never leave you guys. I don’t have anywhere else to go.” He sounded both completely genuine and not at all sorry for himself.

Melanie regarded Cole with adoration and curiosity. No one quite knew where, exactly, Cole had come from, or where he went when they weren’t together. Six years ago, he had shown up unceremoniously at the audition Dorian and Melanie held to assemble the rest of their band, a scrawny fifteen year old kid with a beat up Wade’s Stratocaster. Before either of them could explain they were looking for someone a bit older and more experienced, he wordlessly launched into a flawless rendition of Duncan’s famous solo from The Wardens’ classic hit “Blighted Lands”. They would have been stupid to turn anyone down after a performance like that.  

Since then, he had shown up faithfully to every practice and every show, and on very rare occasions since had turned twenty-one, he would join them at the bar after a show, where he would invariably sit quietly and contentedly without drinking anything the entire night. He never responded to questions about his personal life with anything less than discomfort, and on more than one occasion, when they dared to press further, he had reached a state of near panic. Aside from his repeated assurances to Melanie and Dorian that he did, in fact, have a place to live and hadn’t sacrificed school or any other responsibilities to hang out with them, they knew next to nothing of his life outside the band.

For all his reclusiveness and evasion, however, he was kind, gentle, and unassuming. The Inquisition was truly incredibly lucky to have him.

“Cole, I would hug the crap out of you right now if I didn’t know it would freak you out,” she said warmly. Cole was jumpy when it came to touch.

Melanie thought she heard a quiet, sheepish “thank you” from Cole, but a buzzing in her pocket distracted her. She pulled out her phone to see she had a new text.

**_Leliana  9:42am_ **

_Found something interesting re: give in. Stop by office next Monday._

She pocketed her phone again, filled with a sudden uneasy anticipation at whatever it was Leliana had found. Before she could dwell on it, however, Sera noisily announced her arrival by stomping down the stairs and bellowing that the party could finally start.

Taking a deep breath, Melanie put aside any worries about the revelations that awaited her or any potential future encounters she would have with the strange man she had met nearly a week ago - she had a show to prepare for.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Duncan/The Wardens are re-imagined here as a classic rock band in the vein of Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band
> 
> -For the record since I neglected to mention this before and she's a pretty big figure, Mythal I see as pretty much a Madonna type, if Madonna also died tragically young at the height of her career.


	4. Heading for Trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big fat disclaimer: The song sung by Melanie in this chapter is not written by me; it's a Frank Turner song called "I Knew Prufrock Before He Got Famous." You can check it out below if you'd like to hear it:
> 
> watch?v=NcQ2XmNvjk4

He arrived at Almada Station the same time as always next Tuesday and played for nearly two hours, half expecting the Dalish girl from last week to show up at any minute. When at last the morning commute petered out, he shrugged inwardly and started packing up his violin. Good riddance, he thought. Maybe, if he could convince Varric that he'd followed through on his part, he could still…

"You're good," A familiar alto voice said begrudgingly from behind him.

Still holding his violin, he stood up and turned around, and there she was. All five feet and three inches of her, with the same half-short, half-long auburn hair he remembered, dressed in clothes that, unlike his, were ragged and worn by design rather than age. She was staring at him sullenly with startlingly green eyes that were accented by the matching vallaslin framing them, and carried a soft guitar case slung over one shoulder.

"You don't have to sound so surprised," he retorted dryly.

A strangely inverted sense of deja vu struck him then, of a conversation he'd had long ago in this very spot. Back when it was he, not the woman he spoke to, who stood glowering whilst being paid compliments on his playing. When it was he who had carried himself with unwarranted arrogance, while the serene vision who had stood before him met him with nothing but innocent curiosity and warmth.

If she were here with him now, he thought with a sudden hollow feeling in his chest, she would have slapped him on the wrist and threatened to break it if he didn't play nice. She would have said it all in sweet tones, as well, that were not to be underestimated or taken for mere playfulness. He allowed himself one quick, barely audible exhalation to expunge the sorrow threatening to slip between the cracks of his self-control.

"Well, you know, it's just not often you see someone…" the girl before him faltered for a beat, contemplating her choice of words, "...like you that is so well-versed in Dalish folk music."

Vexation was a welcome distraction from unwanted recollections of the past; he embraced the feeling.

"Oh, I see. You mean to say it's highly unusual that I would play the style so well because I don't have my face painted like I've been to the county fair?" he retorted derisively. To further illustrate his distaste, and, with any luck, to annoy her, he waved his violin bow in front of her face, roughly tracing the tattoos beneath her eyes.

She clenched her jaw, and a forest fire burned in those green eyes of hers, but, to her credit, she didn't lose her temper. He was genuinely impressed.

"I'm sorry," she said through gritted teeth. "I didn't mean to insult you."

"You're only insulting yourself, displaying ignorance like that. The music I play is Elvhen, not Dalish; it does not belong solely to _your_ people."

His statement wasn't completely false, but the reality was that no black and white distinction could be made anymore. A great deal of Dalish folk music, particularly the type he favored, had only been written in the past several centuries, but the genre nevertheless owed much to the ancient stories and traditions of Elvhenan. Precious few Dalish clans in this day and age were solely devoted to keeping the culture of their ancient fallen empire as unsullied as possible. The vast majority of clans throughout Thedas had long since decided to embrace the people they become, instead of holding on to an increasingly deteriorating image of what they had once been.

Indeed, between the already wide gulf of difference between the various Dalish clans, the elven diaspora, and the citizens of the young but slowly stabilizing Elvhen nation of Var'nas, founded just over two centuries ago in the Arbor Wilds, any ideas of what 'true' Elvhen culture was would likely be debated for centuries.

He knew all of this, but truly, he just wanted to take a chunk out of that typical Dalish self-importance he knew and loathed. At his remark, her eyes _did_ drift away from him to stare at the ground, so he supposed he had been successful.

"You're right," she said with a sigh, surprising him with the genuine regret in her tone. "I'm sorry. Really. I get carried away with calling people out on cultural appropriation; I forget that sometimes, it's _their_ culture, too."

He blinked, feeling sorry for having snapped at her and hating the fact that she wasn't even making him feel that way on purpose. He cleared his throat as if to exorcise the guilt.

"It's fine, don't worry about it," he muttered with some reluctance. "I have a tendency to make… uncharitable assumptions about the Dalish. We haven't always gotten along."

_To say the least._

Having reached a strange sort of impasse where they had nothing else to argue about, an awkward silence ensued, and he realized he had all but forgotten the supposed reason she had come to see him. He started preparing a question that would steer her into coming to the point without implying that he already knew what it was, but she spoke before he could finish.

"You were right, you know."

"I do know," he agreed with a trace of his former smugness. After a beat, however, he furrowed his brow. "About what, exactly?"

"About the lyrics to 'Give In'."

" _Oh_. That."

He really shouldn't have argued with her on that point, to be honest. He had just been looking for something to take her down a peg, and he had impulsively chosen to point out a discrepancy in a famous song that precious few people were aware existed.

"It took _a lot_ of work to find out," she said. "A friend of a friend happened to have a first printing of the original release, which included a copy of the correct lyrics. His theory was that after everyone misheard the lyric for what it is today, the studio must have edited the lyrics they printed for every future release of it." She peered up at him curiously. "How did you know?"

"I'm a raging Mythal fan," he tried.

Immediately sensing from her look that he wouldn't get away with humor, he shrugged, trying to appear noncommittal.

"I travel frequently; you learn a lot on the road."

Not the most ironclad defense. She narrowed her eyes at him, skeptical.  
"Is that how you're playing it?" she asked.

"Apparently," he replied evenly. Before she could pry any further, he changed the subject by asking, "I'm curious - why choose that song? Why not play your own music?"

"You're assuming I have my own music."

She was beginning to exhaust him. He made a mental note to ensure that Varric gave him access to the bar as well as the basement, because if she was always going to be this hard a nut to crack, he was going to need a steady supply of alcohol.

"Am I wrong?" he asked pointedly.

"Well, no," she admitted, tilting her chin up. "I guess I just figured, who wants to hear that? It's enough of a struggle trying to wrangle an audience for our shows."

"That doesn't mean people want to hear decades-old histrionic pop music with too much radio play. I'm sorry," he said off of her withering glance, "But that _is_ a fair and accurate description of that song."

"It's an important song for me," she said in a tone that clearly indicated he was not forgiven for insulting it. "I suppose that was part of why I picked it. I've never done anything like that before - playing in the streets or anything - so I wanted to play something I was comfortable with."

"And you're not comfortable enough with your own music?" he baited, raising an eyebrow.

"Of _course_ I am," she returned, looking at him defiantly.

He gave her a challenging smirk, stepping aside and gesturing for her to take his place.

"Prove it."

A portion of the confidence in her posture instantly melted away before his eyes.

"What? _Now_?"

She tried to make it sound like his suggestion was preposterous, when he had just played violin in that very spot for two hours and she had made sure to bring her guitar with her. It disappointed him a little, to be honest. No, that wasn't it - he didn't care about her enough to be disappointed. It ticked him off.

"Too nervous, _da'len_?" he asked, his smile widening at the way his use of the diminutive never failed to make her eye twitch.

That did the trick.

Already unzipping her guitar case, she stepped forward, unnecessarily shoving him further out of the way and glaring daggers at his eyes. Placing the empty case on the floor, she placed the guitar strap over her shoulder - an acoustic one this time, he noted, weathered and covered in faded band stickers - and plucked a few strings experimentally.

"Just so we're clear before I start, I don't give a fuck if you like it or not."

With that, she was off, singing the first lines accompanied by nothing but a few sparsely strung chords.

 _"Let's begin at the beginning: we're lovers and we're losers,_  
_we're heroes and we're pioneers, and we're beggars and we're choosers._  
_We're skirting round the edges of the ideal demographic._  
_We're almost on the guest list, but we're always stuck in traffic."_

Her voice was quiet at first. He thought for a moment that she was self-conscious, but her volume increased as she continued into the second and third verses, and he realized her soft start had been deliberate, measured; she was building up to something. Her song transitioned into a rousing roll call of what he assumed were her fellow musicians and friends, her voice growing more impassioned with each compatriot she mentioned as she lauded their strengths and their flaws with equal fervor.

There had been one reason that her choice of "Give in" puzzled him that he had neglected to mention, and it was that her voice did not have the smooth, silken qualities more typically suited for pop ballads. Hers was a wild, rough voice, more of a thistle than a delicate rose, and the strength and beauty of it were on full display here, not stuffed into a box while she tried to conform it to an entirely different standard. He found himself slowly but surely being drawn into the current of it, as if he were drifting down a river that would sooner or later send him over the edge of a waterfall.

As she entered the final stages of her song, singing an entreaty that was nearly ferocious in tone, he closed his eyes, trying to imagine the instrumentation he wasn't hearing.

_"I am sick and tired of people who are living on the B-list.  
They're waiting to be famous and they're wondering why they do this._

The drums, he reckoned, would be beating out an almost march-like rhythm; this song was, after all, nothing less than a call to arms.

_"And I know I'm not the one who is habitually optimistic,  
but I'm the one who's got the microphone here so just remember this:_

Also, if she knew what was good for her, she'd have someone on electric guitar fretting away in the background the second she began the latter half of the song, kept just low enough so that the acoustic melody could still dominate.

 _"Life is about love, last minutes and lost evenings,_  
_about fire in our bellies and furtive little feelings,_  
_and the aching amplitudes that set our needles all a-flickering,_  
_and help us with remembering that the only thing that's left to do is live._

His eyes snapped open, all rumination driven from his mind by the raw passion with which she belted out the climactic penultimate verse, her last note held clear and long. She was so focused on her music, staring unseeing into the middle distance with her brow set in a furious line, that she remained completely oblivious to how she had just made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

Something between how her song had affected him and the sight of her standing there with all the passion and purpose of a revolutionary caused a smile to form unbidden on his lips, wide and open. He nearly chuckled as he wondered if she was aware that she was all but shouting; that, if the subway were not nearly abandoned by now, she would have turned quite a substantial number of heads, and it wouldn't have been merely the volume of her voice that drew their attention.

A smaller part of him, one that could still think through all the melodies running circles around his brain, wondered if it had ever occurred to her to bring in an orchestral xylophone for just after the climax, for effect. It would sound quite good, he thought.

_"After all the loving and the losing, the heroes and the pioneers,  
the only thing that's left to do is get another round in at the bar."_

He was still thinking about xylophones, bells of various pitches and timbres ringing experimentally in his head, well after she finished her song. Something to keep the tone light; hopeful.

"Well?"

"Hm?" He looked down at her, still half-distracted by his imaginings of a fully produced recording of her song.

"What did you think?" she asked, disaffected, her guitar now slung across her back so she could cross her arms at him.

"You said you didn't give a fuck what I thought."

She shrugged her shoulders without uncrossing her arms, looking to the side momentarily as if she were bored.

"You were grinning like an idiot," she pointed out, a ghost of smirk on her face.

He balked, unsettled by the transformation of this once haughty, excitable upstart into the self-assured, cavalier young woman who stood before him now.

"I was doing no such thing," he denied adamantly.

"Okay. Sure." She directed her eyes skyward in some kind appeal to the heavens before removing her guitar and turning away from him to reach for her case.

"An idiot would have no concept of how much potential your song holds," he continued.

She stopped in the middle of zipping her case back up, turning to look at him as if he were some kind of strange and exotic food that she wasn't sure if she should try. After a moment's consideration, she leaned her case against the wall hesitantly.

"So you're saying, I'd make more money on the streets if I played my own stuff?" she asked.

"No. I'm saying if the rest of your songs are anything near as good as that one, then with the right level of polish and practice, you could have yourself a hit record," he told her, keeping his voice deadly serious.

She took one step closer to him, crossing her arms again, that scrutinizing look never leaving her gaze.

"What do you know?" Her question could have sounded rude so easily, but she voiced it with such genuine confusion that any notion of impertinence was thoroughly dispelled.

He shrugged again, as nonchalantly as before.

"I only know what I hear _._ "

"You're not really into answering questions, are you?" she asked with a sigh.

"Depends on the question."

She tapped her foot, her mouth set in an uncertain line.

"Okay, fine. What kind of polish?"

"Oh, I don't know," he drawled slowly, pretending to think. "I suppose I'd have to hear your other songs to know for sure. It will probably take some time, of course. These things don't happen overnight, you know…" he trailed off deliberately, looking down at her expectantly.

If she squinted at him any harder, her eyes would be shut.

"Are you offering to teach me, _hahren_?"

She spoke with such feigned appreciation, drained any semblance of respect for the honorific with such efficiency, that he laughed before he could restrain himself. Was this what she was really like, underneath the posturing and free from the underlying insecurities? _Fenedhis_ , did he actually _like_ this side of her?

"If you'll have me," he replied earnestly, before mercilessly adding, " _da'len._ "

His pet name invoked the usual irked eye twitch, but this time, it was joined by an equally involuntary upwards quirking of her lips.

"Why?" she asked simply, a suspicious gleam in her eyes.

He could be honest with her, here. Come clean about being an old friend of Varric's, about the deal they had made. It would give him a credible reason for offering her his time and advice indefinitely. He could strip away all the mystery, paint a nice and safe cover story around him that Varric could corroborate. Strangely, however, he found it rather more interesting to see how far she would go without such easy reassurances. He could already see that her curiosity towards him was starting to win out over her caution and skepticism. Could he convince her to accept an offer of aid from a stranger wrapped in enigmas?

"I suppose you wouldn't believe me if I said something hackneyed like 'music is it's own reward'," he answered breezily.

"No, I wouldn't. Why go through all this effort to help me for free?"

He shrugged, affecting an air of boredom and reluctance.

"Well then, pay me, if you insist."

"I can't. I don't even make enough money to pay my rent."

"Then I suppose I'll have to teach you how to do that, as well," he said with a sly grin.

Her posture relaxed slightly; clearly this was an enticing prospect. Still, something in her eyes stubbornly refused to trust him.

"Why does it seem like you want to help me a little too much?" she asked in a faraway tone, almost to herself.

"Perhaps I do," he answered vaguely, "But it seems to me that you _need_ my help a little too much. So where does that leave us, _da'len_?"

He had expected his words to irritate her, or perhaps merely bemuse her; he didn't see her smile coming from a mile away. It spread across her face slowly, laced with mischief and amusement and a little mystery of her own making. Under its power, the light shining out of her veridium eyes seemed like sunlight creeping in between the leaves of the Free Marches forests where she had spent her youth, in spite of the clinical fluorescent lighting of the city's underground.

"I guess it leaves us with no choice," she conceded with no trace of resentment as she extended her hand out to him.

As he took her hand in his to shake on their arrangement, feeling the familiar callouses in her otherwise unmarred skin, he had the strangest, inexplicable feeling that he might be heading for trouble.

They spent a few more minutes briefly discussing logistics. Once she ensured she was free the following morning, he instructed her to meet him early at the Herald's Rest cafe, and to bring with her any and all sheet music she had for her songs.

He initially resisted when she asked for his cell phone number, attempting to deny that he had one, but in a badly timed moment of silence it buzzed in his pocket for both of them to hear. Before she could make any wild speculations about his evasion, he claimed, quite believably, that he was not fond of human interaction, and reluctantly surrendered the number to her on the grounds that she only use it to confirm their appointments.

"Wait," she said, furrowing her brow as she paused in their middle of punching his number into her contacts. "What's your name, even?"

Right, names. People had those, when they actually lived and communicated with other people. His mind went frantic for an instant, searching for one.

"You can call me Solas," he said, smiling as he thought of it.

She looked up briefly to raise an eyebrow at him, suggesting a healthy amount of disbelief, but she nevertheless typed the name in and looked at him expectantly for a moment.

"Don't you want mine?"

He grimaced at the thought of adding even one more contact to his temporary phone.

"What reason would I have to call you?" he asked.

"My _name_ , you weirdo."

" _Oh_. Sure, let's have it."

"It's Melanie. Melanie Lavellan," she said. Then, looking at him warily, she ventured, "You're just going to keep calling me _da'len_ , aren't you?"

Solas grinned.

"You catch on quickly, _da'len_."

It wasn't until he was walking down the street, well after they parted ways, that he remembered his phone had buzzed during their conversation. He took it out and flipped it open, expecting it to be Varric checking in and stopping in his tracks when he saw who it was from.

_**S.V. 11:04am** _

_Need to talk to you asap - hurricane pulled from album._  
_Meet me at usual place - 1030pm._  
_I can explain._

Solas's hand shook with rage as he read out the message several times over in his head. In less than 100 characters, Vael had dismantled a deal that had been _years_ in the making.

His song. The one he had written so long ago that it felt like a different lifetime, waiting patiently for the right talent to come along. The song for which he had spent years carefully cultivating the career of said talent when it had come along - and now that talent was telling him the song had been pulled from release.

For a brief moment, he nearly smashed the unwanted phone then and there, but it was saved at the last second by the sole grace that he might need it in case Vael needed to contact him further about their meeting.

_I can explain._

It had better be a damned good explanation.

* * *

Sebastian had, for a long time now, resented his good looks. He resented that they made it impossible for him to blend into the background, as he so desperately wished for these past few years. He resented that they made so many women want things from him that he had no desire, intention, or right to give. He resented that they were used to call into question the integrity and quality of his music. Most of all, he resented that they had played no small part in making him as famous as he was today.

Aside from these heavier, ongoing grudges he held against his own reflection, he had just added a lesser but nonetheless equally irritating side effect: it was nearly _impossible_ to escape into any kind of solitude. He had just spent an hour absconded in one of the restrooms at Divine Records, wandered blindly through dimly lit subway tunnels wearing dark sunglasses and a hat, and had very nearly pawned off his easily spotted white leather coat to a homeless man. The coat was silly, he admitted, but it was a well-meant and treasured gift from Merrill, and as he bounded the last steps and stepped out onto the roof of the Old College Theater, he was glad that he _and_ his coat had made it to the appointed meeting with a few minutes to spare.

No one arrived late to a meeting with the Dread Wolf - not if they had any respect for their peace of mind.

Sebastian breathed a labored sigh of relief as he took in the empty rooftop before him. He was glad to have a few minutes to himself before what promised to be an unpleasant conversation. He approached the edge of the roof and leaned heavily on the railing, his eyes idly tracing the headlights of shrunken cars drive by ten stories below him.

"You're not about to do anything stupid again, are you?" The familiar Starkhaven-accented voice, rough with age and something new that Sebastian couldn't quite place, drawled apathetically behind him.

Sebastian whirled around, suddenly regretting his position, to see the old wolf himself leaning up against the wall just behind the door Sebastian had come through, watching him with a lazy disinterest. Seeing him there was startling enough, but Sebastian nearly did a double take at both the unruly mop of dark hair that had appeared since their last meeting, and at the glimmering embers of a nearly spent cigarette in his left hand.

"I didn't know you were already here," Sebastian began cautiously.

"You weren't meant to," he replied as he tossed the cigarette on the ground and stamped it out, watching as its light died out.

Then, without warning, he looked back up at Sebastian with predatory fury, all traces of his former lethargy gone as he stepped forward a few paces menacingly.

"Just so you are forewarned," he began in a voice that as little more than a growl. "I am likely, for the duration of this conversation, to employ a great deal of what you would probably define as 'excessively vulgar blasphemy' to properly illustrate the full extent of my disappointment in you."

Sebastian hastily took a step away from the edge, keenly aware that this put him closer to the man advancing towards him with a vengeful glare.

"Listen, Fe-"

" _No_. Not that name. _Never_ that name."

The warning was unnecessary; Sebastian stopped speaking his name the second he saw the flash of fire in the man's ice blue eyes.

"What am I supposed to call you, then?" Sebastian asked, risking an exasperated shrug of his shoulders.

The man sighed, exhaling a fraction of his anger.

"It's Solas now, if you must," he answered reluctantly, before muttering, "Though I hardly see why it's necessary."

"Elvish, I take it," Sebastian pressed, hoping the tangent would further placate 'Solas'. "Why that name?"

Solas took a few more steps forward, relaxing slightly as he ran a hand through his hair to keep it away from his forehead. The effort failed miserably.

"No particular reason. Just my latest sin," he replied, flashing a grin that managed to be self-deprecating _and_ intimidating. "Listen, it's not that I'm feeling particularly charitable, but it's late enough as it is. What do you say we cut straight to figuring out how to fix this mess, and skip the part where I flagrantly invoke the name of your nonexistent god to condemn you to fate so horrific you'll wish I'd never stopped you jumping off that bridge all those years ago?"

Sebastian clenched his jaw; whatever name he went by, Solas had a way of testing your patience. Still, he thought, it was only going to get worse; it wouldn't do to lose his composure so early in the game.

"Before you say anything, F-Solas..." he began, but Solas continued speaking, as if he hadn't even heard Sebastian, as he paced back and forth restlessly.

"The first thing I need to know is why they cut the song. Knowing Diving Records, let me guess… they thought it was too bleak for your image."

"No. What I called you here to tell you…"

"No?" Solas stopped for a brief second to look up at Sebastian in confusion before setting to pacing once more. "Did they think it was too old for you, then? No, probably not. Not the right time, perhaps, with your current circumstances? Not my fault that you live such a charmed fucking life, in any case. I warned you, if you had to go and get yourself a wife and a kid, to try to keep your personal life to yourself, but you couldn't help it, could you? How are you supposed to maintain the brooding allure of a successful rock star when you're on honeymoon in Antiva City and changing fucking diapers? Well, never mind; what's done is done, the point now is to…"

"Solas!" Sebastian all but yelled.

The elf stopped pacing and looked up at him with a look that was simultaneously irritated and impressed.

"I'm sorry, Vael," he said, slowly and far from apologetically. "Is there something you'd like to say?"

Sebastian looked Solas in the eye, acquainting himself with the hostility growing there that he knew was his destiny, and took a deep breath to steel himself.

"Solas, Divine Records didn't pull your song; they loved it. It was me. I made them do it."

In the blink of an eye, Solas's hand was gripping him tightly by the collar of his jacket, and Sebastian somehow found himself back up against the railing at the edge of the roof. The elf, seemingly unconcerned with the upper hand Sebastian had in stature and physical strength, glared up at him with a cold, threatening ire that made Sebastian himself disregard any such advantage.

"I want you consider your answer to my next question very carefully." Solas emphasized his point by squeezing tighter on the collar of his coat and pushing Sebastian ever so gently backwards against the railing. "Why?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Sebastian's music is not heavily discussed in this chapter, but in my head his style is similar to artists like Brian Fallon/The Gaslight Anthem and Chuck Ragan; classic rock inspired rock/punk.


End file.
